Cairns: The Great Barrier Reef

The world is a dichotomy of blues, azure sky against cobalt swells, bisected by an endless horizon. Beneath me, the floor pitches and rolls. Gleaming chrome on the boat’s handrail catches the sun periodically causing flares of light to blink in and out of existence. The fabric of my shirt ripples and snaps in the salt air as we race across the Pacific.

The ocean has a dorky habit of waving in photos.

Today’s destination is the Great Barrier Reef. One of the seven ‘Natural Wonders of the World’, it ranks alongside Everest, the Grand Canyon, and the Northern Lights for the best things our planet offers. I’m going to dive it.

Staring out over the ocean with every reason to be excited, I am a nervous wreck.

My relationship with diving is a recent one and we’re still testing the waters. The upside is as advertised. You get to gear up in high-tech equipment, ignore gravity, and glide above unmatched beauty. Diving is being an astronaut but with less glory and way more alien life.

Picture Caption: And the poor suckers sending probes to Mars are praying to find bacteria.

My big holdup is something else well-known to astronauts: finite air. Air was something I took for granted until a childhood encounter with the bestselling 90’s video game, Super Mario 64. I took Mario underwater and a gauge appeared above his head that drained menacingly as long as he was submerged. Curious, I let the gauge empty and was treated to a disturbingly realistic drowning. Audible gag against the influx of water. Desperate throat clutch. Body goes limp. Slow, face-down float to the surface.  

I was six.

Of course, there are safeguards in place to stave off this nightmare. In dive training you learn to breathe slowly and monitor your air level. In an emergency scenario where you do run empty, you always have your dive buddy. Their gear has a secondary mouthpiece so you can share a tank and get to the surface. There are even hand signals for “Out of air.” and “Share air?” to ensure you don’t prevent your own drowning without proper consent.

Not to be confused with the signals for “Death to Italians.”

This time is different, though. During dive training I had a watchful teacher who knew my competency level and intervened with any unintentional self-destruction accordingly. I had a dive buddy who I truly trusted with my life. Now, I have uncertainty. My arrival in Australia marked the beginning of two weeks of solo travelling. I’m still getting used to it. The people who usually have my back are in a different time zone. For the first time in a long time, it’s just me.

There’s a gentle chime on the intercom and a soft Australian accent radiates through the ether.

“All Certified Divers please report to the cabin for your dive briefing. Thank you.”

One deep breath. Let’s do this. Turning to go inside, I can’t help but think the buffeting wind is air tugging at my shirt, begging me not to leave it behind.

Two minutes into the session, I’m smiling in spite of myself. At the front of the room, one man is doing the impossible – trying to be funny during an informational brief and succeeding. That man is Kyle.

“It isn’t the okay barrier reef. It isn’t the average barrier reef. It’s Grrrrreat!”

The Tony the Tiger impression is spot on.

Kyle is in his late twenties, smiles constantly, and sports the signature tan and tattoos of a dive instructor. His genuine enjoyment of this routine guarantees that Kyle will one day be the father at soccer practice who mortifies his children with lame jokes.

A more accurate lifejacket would be labelled ‘CHILD AT HEART’.

The safety portion of the brief begins.

“This is Australia, so everything is trying to kill us.”

Good start.

“In reality, just don’t bother anything. Most creatures won’t attack unless provoked.”

I wonder if having a pack of giants plunge from the sky and coast through your neighbourhood taking flash photography counts as provocation.

“The most important thing you should be looking out for down on the reef is your air gauge. We turn back the dive at 70 Bar. If that needle hits 50, you’re into the emergency reserve. Got it?”

Got it.

“Now, does anyone get seasick?”

A single hand goes up in a room of thirty.

“One honest person. The rest of you are liars. As part of my day job, I will now mime the steps required to use a vomit bag.”

The rest of the briefing goes off without a hitch and with a few genuine bouts of laughter. Kyle concludes by offering his services as a dive guide for anyone interested. He offers to showcase the best parts of the reef and to look out for any divers who aren’t fully confident in the water. I sign up at the top of the list.

Reassured and reinvigorated, the enthusiasm that had eluded me is now present in full force. Time to suit up.

Hollywood directors have misled us with the magic of montage. In movies, suiting up for any mission is a dramatic series of quick cuts. Zippers zip. Buckles clip. Heroes nod in unison. In reality, it’s being stuck in a half-on wetsuit until some generous stranger yanks it over your shoulders followed by a bout of double and triple checking.

Artist’s depiction of the scene omitted from every James Bond film.

The check-over process follows the acronym BWRAF (pronounced ‘bee-raff’). This is because whoever developed the diving curriculum either suffered from post-stroke aphasia or was a disgruntled, pun-loving employee who thought a silent ‘W’ was the perfect act of quiet rebellion. Mentally, I review the steps:

B is for buoyancy control device, the inflatable vest that turns you into a high-tech puffer fish. Press a button to puff up. Press another to puff down. Experience giddy joy as you realize this is what you’ve been missing all your life.

W is for weights. Confirm that you have relinquished your sanity by observing the belt of heavy lead weights you fastened around your abdomen in preparation to jump into the ocean.

R is for releases. Identify how to remove your weight belt in the event you suddenly regain sanity once submerged.

A is for air. Attempt to draw breath from your mouthpiece. If your lungs pull desperately against void, ensure your tank valve is open. You can now accurately imagine what it feels like to drown.

F is for final okay. This is a cop-out of epic proportion. Pause for a moment and struggle to recall if there’s anything you missed before cursing the individual who put a thinly veiled ‘Other’ category in a five-step safety process.

The BWRAF check is to be conducted with your dive buddy. A second pair of eyes to keep you alive. I spot Kyle struggling his way into a wetsuit and walk over.

“Hey, Kyle. Who’s my buddy for this dive?”

Kyle grimaces and shakes his head. Uh-oh.

“Last minute change. Too many people signed up to have me guide. We split the group. You’re gonna be with Steph.”

Okay, no Kyle. Still, I’ll be with a guide. Steph is probably equally attentive and uplifting. Why wouldn’t she be? Kyle’s voice drops to a whisper.

“Between you and me, Steph’s pretty pissed. She was only supposed to be running the onboard stuff today, but they’re making her pull double duty. She doesn’t usually do amateur groups either, so try not to be too much trouble.”

And with that, Kyle took my fragile sense of security and tossed it overboard.

I am directed to Steph, who’s back is turned as she scribbles furiously on a dive slate.

“Ummm, Steph?”

“What?!”

Steph turns. I flinch.

Tall, tan, blonde, and athletic, Steph has done what many competent, beautiful women resort to after a lifetime of unwelcome male attention: perfect the disgusted, you-are-less-than-dirt face. Steph has decided that this is also the right face for her bad day at work. It’s quite unsettling.

Notice the man on the right instinctively protecting his wallet.

The person I’m trusting with my life looks like she wouldn’t blink if I were hit by a truck. In fact, it looks like she wouldn’t mind driving the truck.

Still, Steph is just my guide. It’s my dive buddy who really matters. After a brief and chilly exchange with Steph, I am pointed to my buddy. She is a tiny Chinese woman sitting on a nearby bench, adjusting settings on an oversized underwater camera in a passionate attempt to reinforce stereotypes.

“Hello!”

Head swivels to me. Blank stare. Head swivels back to camera.

“I’m your dive buddy. My name is Tom.”

Head swivels to me. Slight head tilt.

“Yes.”

Head swivels back to camera.

“Would you like to do a pre-dive safety check?”

“No.”

This time she doesn’t even look up. She just keeps fiddling with the camera. I’m starting to get desperate.

“A safety check?!? BWRAF? You know BWRAF?!?”

The fiddling continues. I do not exist. I stand there dumbly for a few seconds before she gets up and walks away, not once shifting her gaze from the camera.

The intercom chimes. The gentle Australian voice fills the air once again.

“All Certified Divers please make your way to the rear deck. We will be entering the water shortly. Thank you.”

Sometimes, you go it alone.

Down on the back deck, we’re a group of six plus Steph. I stand dutifully by my nameless partner who has adjusted the camera to her satisfaction and is now gleefully snapping pictures. She may not save my life, but at least my death will be well documented.

We inflate our buoyancy control devices, stride into the water, and bob in a group, specks on the surface of the mighty Pacific.

At this stage, I’m used to the guide checking in – “All good? Everyone have their buddy?” – then a second check in with my buddy – “I’m on your left, you’re on my right? Ready? Nervous? Excited?” – before the guide reconfirms readiness and counts down our descent.

I have been coddled.

“Down.”

Steph tosses this out with such nonchalance that I barely register it. There’s the hiss and bubble of deflating buoyancy vests. Suddenly, I am alone.

The reptilian part of my brain makes the executive decision that this is an occasion for adrenaline – I’ve got to get down. Wait, where’s my mouthpiece? What if I make them turn back the dive? What if they get too far away? Panic starts to rise as my mind slips between thoughts.

Stop.

Get a hold of yourself. 

I know how to do this. Just get your mouthpiece and get down. I take a deep breath and focus on the mouthpiece retrieval steps from certification. Hand starts on the thigh. Drag up along the back. Extend arm behind. Sweep up over the shoulder.

My mouthpiece is now dangling over my arm. Perfect. I put it in and start a countdown for myself.

Three.

Two.

One.

Descend.

For all the anxious anticipation, slipping beneath the ocean’s surface has a calming effect. The cool. The quiet. The blue.

Looking down, I can see the dive group a few metres below. It doesn’t seem that they miss me yet, instead distracted by what appears to be Chinese dive buddy making an attempt on Steph’s life.

Kali Ma!

I drop into formation and dive buddy ends her assault on Steph. She swims to my side and gives me the “Okay?” symbol. She kept the group waiting for me. Dive buddy had my back. I signal that I’m okay and she nods. The dive begins.

For the first time, I turn my attention to our surroundings.

Wow.

The sheer structural magnitude of the reef is dwarfing, reaching from our place on the ocean floor up fourteen metres to the surface. Its composition, though, is the true source of wonder.

Coral is what would happen if Tim Burton and Guillermo del Toro teamed up to invent trees. It’s an alien forest – tangled horns, reaching fingers, bulbous tumors, and conical summits. Innumerable structures make up just this section of reef, each structure the intricate product of symbiosis between innumerable microorganisms.

But the coolest one is undoubtedly the noseless Squidward wearing shoulder pads.

Populating this forest is an overwhelming diversity of fish. It’s as if God armed a class of second graders with crayons, described his approximate vision for a fish – gills, fins, scales – then put all the drawings up on the Great Barrier Reef so everyone could see his students’ special creations! You can just imagine that walk around the classroom.

Very nice, Susie!

Beautifully done, Mei Ling, as always!

Troy! How spoooooky.

At least you tried, Gus.

Kyle, is everything alright at home?

Swimming through it all is mesmerizing. Every once in a while, my amateur diving ability rears its head. I mismanage my breathing, sink towards the reef and try desperately not to kick coral and hasten the death of a natural wonder. But for the most part, it’s peaceful. I lose myself in the surroundings, a fleshy aquatic zeppelin drifting through the coral-scape, basking in its wonder and tranquility. Sometimes, I chase a fish.

What I don’t do once, though, is check my air. So, after forty minutes, when Steph signals me for an air update, I look at my gauge.

Oops.

Less than ten minutes of breathing from a nightmare, Steph has my back.

I return to the boat without incident, strip out of my gear, and walk headfirst into a buffet of fish and prawns. Delicious, but strange in context. Like being served lamb chops at the exit of a petting zoo. There’s a complimentary glass of wine with lunch. This I accept without any moral quandary.

I head to the top deck with my haul and reflect.

Every activity done solo travelling is an exercise in learning to trust yourself, to operate without an immediate support network, to grow as an individual. Today, I did all that.

Today, I also learned to trust more in others. Kyle put a smile on my face. Dive buddy kept the team waiting. Steph kept tabs on my air. I learned that people – even when faced with too many divers to guide, a language barrier, or a bad work day – often do their best to be good.

I stare out over the ocean and sip my glass. The wine is terrible, but people are good, the view is lovely, and the reef was great.

Cheers, friends.